Routine Habit
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Virgil doesn't understand why he keeps letting this happen, or know why it's become so routine, such an easy habit to commit. But Richie doesn't seem to mind in the least. .:. VR slash drabble. rated T for some content. newly edited a bit.


**A/N: Late-night ideas while you stare at the ceiling trying to sleep at night can be very distracting at times. It made me get out of bed to write this little piece. D:**

**And yes, I am fully aware of the fact that 'routine' and 'habit' mean essentially the same thing. But titles are meant to be screwy, right?**

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They have this bizarre routine that occurs after every late-night battle or long patrol.

And Virgil doesn't know why he keeps doing it, or why it's become habit, or how it's turned into such a natural thing that they don't even need to speak while it happens.

On this night, one in which Static and Gear are physically and mentally exhausted from patrolling, the habit kicks in yet again. It's routine goes something like this:

They sneak in through Richie's wide bedroom window, and strip each other of their costumes. Then they crawl into Richie's bed in their boxers and undershirts, and slip under the cool sheets. And while Virgil lies there with his head in a hazy, jumbled mess, with his arms beneath his pillow, he waits. And then, on cue, Richie shimmies over to his side, tucks his blond head in the crook of Virgil's side, rests his cheek near Virgil's breastbone, wraps an arm around Virgil's stomach, and closes his eyes.

It's the second half of the habit that worries the mocha teen, because he has the uncanny tendency to return the cuddle by bringing one arm out from under the pillow and draping it protectively around Richie. At first, it was on the genius's shoulder; but then, a few cases later, it was on his bicep. Then his elbow. Then his ribs. Then his waist. And now, on the current night, the palm of his dark hand is oh-so-casually resting on Richie's hip, so close to the elastic of his boxers, and oh no, the base of his thumb is brushing against some skin where Richie's shirt rides up, and why isn't he pulling away or finding this half as strange as he should?

Because sometimes, Richie's leg will curl on top of his, or Richie's hot breath will seep through his shirt and graze his nipple, or Richie will adjust himself in his sleep to accidentally place a partial kiss on Virgil's neck. And Virgil is barely aware of half of these things, but they are no dreams, and he doesn't know why he allows it. He doesn't understand why Richie is so unashamed of being affectionate like this, even if half the actions are done in his sleep.

Virgil does comprehend, however, what incident brought on these unusual circumstances in their friendship:

One night, about a month ago, they ran into a bad meeting with the Metabreed. They got their butts kicked rather badly, and were sore for days afterward, but at the time, they only cared about rounding up the last Metahuman criminal and sending them off to jail before passing out.

While watching the police haul the prisoners away (they were able to catch Shiv and Talon, but no one else), Gear had turned to Static and said lowly, "Let's crash at my place, man. It's closest."

"But what about your parents, or mine?" Static had wondered as they prepared to fly their weary bones home.

"You can sneak out around dawn and go home. But be honest, V; you can't go all the way back to your house tonight with the shape you're in."

And it had been true, so Virgil complied. He followed his friend home, and on the short ride there, they laughed tiredly about the expression on Shiv's face when his purple-haired rear was caught right between five cops as the reinforcements had come barging in.

When they stumbled in through Richie's window as quietly as possible, they had sat down on the floor for a minute, too sore to move very much. "Here, I'll help you get out of your costume," Richie had offered as soon as Virgil had fallen onto his back. Finding it perfectly reasonable when it was suggested, Virgil nodded, and let Richie undress him. After all, he trusted his best friend with his life, so what was it if he let him shed his clothes? And Richie was polite, knowing to leave on Virgil's white undershirt, and obviously his boxers.

And, since he had the time to rest, he felt strong enough to return the favor. "Lemme get yours for you, bro," he had said, and he started by yanking off Richie's helmet and ordering Backpack to hop down from Richie's back. And then, when Richie was left with similar amounts of clothing, they pulled one another to their feet and tumbled into the soft comfort of Richie's forgiving mattress.

It was only then that the real habit started to form, because when Richie blinked his eyes open to the sunlight in the morning, he was smiling and didn't seem to mind the fact that he and Virgil had somehow managed to get tangled up in each other over the course of the night. And while Virgil was woken up that morning to be sent home, the vague realization of it all hardly touched him as he hopped into his clothes and flew home.

But now, as he stares at Richie's ceiling and feels the other's body heat encase him, he puzzles over why Richie had smiled in such a manner, and why they keep falling asleep together like this, and why he secretly hadn't minded waking up to seeing a smile on his blond. But, worst of all, Virgil wonders why he's recently been referring to Richie as_ his_ when his thoughts wander toward this subject.

The dark-skinned teen doesn't like it, any of it. He doesn't like that he's falling so effortlessly into a routine habit of being close enough to Richie to hear his heartbeat and shallow breathing. He doesn't like that, when he wakes up to find himself on his side facing the blond, and feels the other's fingers fisting his dreadlocks, with his arms around the paler, thinner figure, Virgil never bothers to move. He's disturbed by the fact that he_ enjoys_ feeling Richie in his arms on these mornings, and is also disturbed by the fact that he _enjoys_ the occasional hardness pressed against his thigh on the mornings that Richie has wood. Every teenaged guy has such a problem on random mornings, but for Virgil's body to respond… it's not normal. And he _doesn't like it one bit._

Yet it keeps happening. After they're out late, they go to Richie's house, conk out, wake up, exchange a few words and a smile, and then Virgil goes home on his disc before he's missed. And if they have school that day (which, so far, they have on most days this month because it's March), they act casual, as if it never happened, and won't happen again.

But it does. Often enough in the past month that it's left Virgil insecure in his own skin, unsure about what this means.

Still, he can't resist it. He can't pull away, or say no. It's too routine, now. It's too comfortable, too… _easy._

So he pulls up the sheets to cover them further, tightens his grip around Richie, and shuts his eyes to block out the sight of the dimly lit ceiling above. And he pretends in his drowsy mind not to notice how Richie stirs and runs his hand down Virgil's side. And he pretends not to notice how Richie mumbles his name in a husky voice, "Mn, _Virgil,_" while he sleeps. And above all else, he pretends that he doesn't have the urge to tilt his head and kiss the top of Richie's yellow mop of hair before he, too, joins in the slumbering peace of the night.


End file.
